Homecoming
by samvimes
Summary: Sequel to 'Some Buggers'. There's a surprise in store for the widow Vimes...


Phew, what's wrong with ff.net this weekend? My, my, my. I hope this   
actually makes it to posting.  
  
I hadn't intended to write a sequel to "Some Buggers". I thought that,  
as a happy little story that reassures us about heroes never really   
dying, it stood alone.  
  
Apparently, I was wrong.  
  
I have to admit, I did want Sybil's reaction to her husband's new lease   
on life. And as was kindly pointed out to me, some of us are not happy   
with the idea of Sam Vimes dealing with that most pernicious of zombie   
issues: Bits Falling Off.  
  
The result isn't precisely satisfying, at least to me, but it does   
cover the bases I intended to cover, and I do so like Sam Junior.  
  
Enjoy, gentle readers.   
  
  
Homecoming  
  
  
"It worries me."  
  
"Oh, does it? I thought it infuriated you."  
  
"Don't be cheeky. It's not natural, you know."  
  
"Course it's natural. I didn't do anything. I just waited. You're the   
one who popped up out of the ground."  
  
"Well I didn't choose it, did I?"  
  
"I'm sure you didn't have to."  
  
"But listen, I know from zombies. Bits falling off and all."  
  
"Oh aye? Reg Shoe, you mean?"  
  
"Poor man has to reinforce his seams every day off. It isn't right."  
  
"Well, I don't see why that'd happen to you. The Watch buried Reg Shoe   
the first time, yes?"  
  
"Yes..."  
  
"Cheap job?"  
  
"We had seven men to bury, Sam, of course we couldn't afford -- "  
  
"But /you/ had the best burial money could buy."  
  
"Don't remind me."  
  
"Tip top enbalming and the rest. Wouldn't be surprised if you're better   
off now than before. Like what's his name, the lawyer fellow."  
  
"/Slant/. Good gods, Sam, don't compare me to him."  
  
"No, dad, just like...you'll be a bit more durable, now. Hard-wearing.  
You've been pickled."  
  
"This isn't funny."  
  
"Yes it is."  
  
"You're not supposed to speak ill of the dead."  
  
"The dead aren't supposed to up and walk around, are they?"  
  
***  
  
The mansion on Scoone Avenue was unusually quiet. Out in the dragon   
house, the hatchlings yammered occasionally, and once in a while there   
was a lick of flame or two, but that was all.  
  
The staff were subdued. Nobody had exactly been close to the Duke, no   
servant would ever be anything more than warily polite to him, but he   
had been their employer, and he had been a good one. He never stinted   
on Hogswatch bonuses, and always gave them two grannies' funerals off   
per year. He wasn't a cruel man. He just wasn't a very pleasant one.   
  
And, thought Yana the cook, treacherously, now he wasn't a very alive   
one.  
  
Oh, she was sad to see him go, but life did go on. There was Lady Sybil   
to cook for, and Master Sam, and the other servants, and someone had to   
make sure there was food at the funeral, didn't they? Yana had survived   
the deaths of people she loved more, and would again. Now, if young   
Master Sam had died, she might not be so calm, but he hadn't, and she   
was glad of that.   
  
So she was kneading the bread, and keeping an eye on one of the   
under-housemaids who was crying quietly in a corner, and making sure   
that the roast would be all right, since roasts still burned though Sam   
Vimes was dead.   
  
There was a bump against the kitchen door, and Master Sam put his head   
in, giving her a tired smile. "Hallo, Yana. How's everyone holding up?"  
  
"Terrible, Master Sam," Yana said complacently. "We're all very sorry   
to see your dad go."  
  
Master Sam looked more cheerful than he ought, somehow; even Yana knew   
that. "Thank you, Yana. I'm sure he'll be missed."  
  
"You head of the house, now?"  
  
"Well, I don't know, really," Sam said, stepping inside. "I suppose   
I've got to sign the wages and such. Never really knew how that worked.   
Mum probably does."  
  
"You let your mum alone till she's had her mourn," Yana said sharply.   
It was all very well for a cook to be off-handed about her employer's   
death, but his wife ought to be treated with some respect. "Or you're a   
cold-hearted boy that doesn't deserve the parents he's had."  
  
"Desist, Yana! I wouldn't do anything to upset mum, you know me better   
than that."  
  
"Already have, staying out all hours like a bloody fool on the very   
night your father's buried," Yana muttered.   
  
"I was at the graveyard, I was," Sam said reproachfully.   
  
"Oo, you do sound like yer father when you take that tone," Yana   
answered. "Spit and image of him as you are."  
  
Sam smiled shyly, and ran a hand over his cheeks, rubbing his jaw. He   
was aware he looked like his father, skinny and tough, but there was   
something of the Ramkin line in him too, in the eyes, and the born-in   
charming arrogance of a lord. Yana had known Lord Ramkin; she'd   
started as a scullery maid, and had been with the household for forty   
years.   
  
"Listen, I'll just take some tea up to mum, shall I? How's she holding   
up?"  
  
"There's a good lad. She's in her room, so far as I know. Here you   
are," Yana said, quickly assembling a tea service with the skill of a   
thirty-years servant. "Don't tip it now."  
  
"I haven't tipped it since I was seven, Yana."  
  
"And I remember it, don't I? So until I forget you did once tip, you   
shan't tip again."  
  
"Yes, Yana." Sam accepted the tray, hooked the door with his foot, and   
vanished into the hall.  
  
Yana sighed. Such a good lad, to be suddenly fatherless.  
  
***  
  
Sybil had, in the best tradition of the Ramkins -- and the Vimes',   
too, when you got down to it -- kept a stiff upper lip through the   
funeral arrangements and the service and even through most of the   
actual burial, except towards the end. She was quite proud of that, at   
all events. Now she was alone, in the room she'd shared with Sam for  
more years than she cared to think about, and now that she could cry,   
the tears wouldn't come.  
  
She just sat at her writing desk, and sometimes looked up and out the   
window towards the city, and tried not to think about anything.  
  
She had her boy. That was something. He'd been a great help, was far   
too grown up for his age. There was so much of Sam in him. He was a   
man, with a man's responsibilities, when most of the other peers'   
children were still getting parlour maids into trouble and starting   
scandals. He'd gone off to Pseudopolis, even, and she'd hardly known   
him when he came back, tall and proud with his corporal's stripes.  
  
There was a knock at the door, and young Sam's voice. "Mum, I brought   
up some tea, if you'd like."  
  
"Thank you, Sam," she called. "Come in."  
  
She looked back down at the desk; heard the door open and shut, and the   
tray being set down on the table near the window.   
  
"I'm sorry to be useless, Sam. It's all been so very tiring," she said.   
"I'm sure in the morning I'll be better. I'm just not sure what to do   
with myself right now."  
  
"Here we are. Lemon and just a little cream."  
  
Sybil looked up, sharply. That was her husband's voice --   
  
The figure, outlined against the sunset over the city, could be her son   
or her husband; they were so alike sometimes.   
  
"I'm afraid the lemons aren't very fresh," he said. She didn't move.   
"It's all right, Sybil. Oh, blast." He set the teacup down. "It was the   
boy's idea, I said you wouldn't take it well -- "  
  
"/Sam/?" she asked, her voice faltering. He smiled, and now she could   
see him in the light from the lamps; it was her Sam, her husband.   
  
"It's me, Sybil," he said quietly.   
  
"What are you doing here?" she asked, realizing it was the stupidest   
thing she'd ever said to him in their entire life together.  
  
"Tea," he said, indicating the tray. "I...erm...listen..." he sighed.   
"I'm a zombie, Sybil."  
  
Sybil burst into tears.  
  
"Here, now, there's no need for all that." He reached into his pocket   
for a handkerchief, and then remembered that the dead don't often need   
to blow their nose. "Damn it...here." He walked to his dresser -- she   
hadn't even cleaned it out yet -- and got her a new one. A fresh   
stream of tears greeted this gesture.  
  
"Now then. It's nothing to cry about," he said, as she took the   
handkerchief and sniffled into it. "Sam thinks I'm probably pretty   
durable, you know -- and all the bits seem to work still," he added,   
showing her his fingers as he flexed them.  
  
Sybil, through the sobs, smiled at him. Then she laughed, damply, and   
stood, and embraced him. He held her head against his shoulder.  
  
"It's all right," he said, because -- although it probably wasn't,   
although being a zombie probably did have drawbacks in the arena of   
married life -- there didn't seem to be anything else to say. "The Yard   
was on the way home, so I've already told Carrot and the rest...I hope   
you don't mind..."  
  
She looked up at him again, and laughed, less tearily this time. "Ten   
minutes ago you were gone forever," she said quietly. "I shouldn't   
think I'd mind having you back, whether you stopped at the Yard or   
not."  
  
"Good."  
  
"Sam knows."  
  
"Oh yes. He waited up for me. Bright lad."  
  
"Can't think where he gets it from."  
  
"Not my side."  
  
Sybil put her head back on his shoulder. "I missed you so much."  
  
"Well, I got here as soon as I could. If you'd opted for a cheaper   
coffin, it might've been a bit sooner, you know," he said. "We're going   
to have words on that subject in the morning."  
  
"All the words you want," she said with a smile. There was a knock on   
the door, and Sam put his head in.  
  
"I'm going out with the lads," he said. "Down the Bucket, Carrot's   
buying rounds. Toasting to the Commander and all. Don't do anything I   
wouldn't do," he added. His father shook a finger at him.   
  
"Strong drink's a mocker, Sam!" he called, as the door swung shut.  
  
"So Carrot tells me!" Sam called back, down the hallway.  
  
When he was gone, Sybil finally let go of him, and stepped back to   
give him a good look, as if he'd just come home from a long day at the   
Yard.  
  
"I'm afraid I'm a bit grey," he said sadly. "Don't know that I'd have   
picked this, but -- "  
  
"Don't you dare say that, Sam Vimes!" Sybil said sharply. "I don't care  
what colour you are."  
  
"Yes but -- "  
  
"And you're going to retire," said Sybil firmly. "You always said there  
was time to sleep when you were dead, and now you are. So we're going   
to take a holiday, and then you're going to have some words with your   
son about that girl he's seeing up in Heroes street, and after that, if  
you promise not to spend more than four hours a day at it, you may   
supervise Commander Carrot in his duties."  
  
"All right, but I -- Heroes street?" he asked, his forehead suddenly   
wrinkling. "What girl in Heroes street?"  
  
Sybil smiled.   
  
Her Sam was back.  
  
END 


End file.
